


Antivenin

by afterwit



Series: The Redeemers [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterwit/pseuds/afterwit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dorian gets news from Tevinter about a new supremacist movement, he turns to an unlikely ally to help him gut the Magisterium- a new arrival to Skyhold named Fenris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome and hello! This is an ongoing project for the moment, written by myself and a friend who is not on AO3. If you're looking for ship stuff you'll have to simmer for a few chapters, but it will be there, I promise! Chapters are posted as they are finished and edited. There are mentions of Dorian/Iron Bull but it's not the focus so I haven't tagged it. Many thanks to TF, for helping me write this, and for writing an amazing Fenris.

There was much left to do, in the wake of the fall of Corypheus- the Venatori had lost their figurehead, but that didn't mean the ripples of unrest were calmed. Dorian spent many days reading and sending letters to Magisters that were sympathetic to the pariah- his allies in the senate reporting that the Archon had not been seen since the news arrived in Tevinter, and that they suspected that there would be an assassination before long.

Such was life, in Tevinter.

Dorian wandered between his books and his small library, frowning at books, casting annoyed glances at the crows. Occasionally, he would visit The Iron Bull, take a tumble into the Qunari's arms, but even that seemed to be cooling off, slightly.

Dorian was restless, itching to return home.

So he wrote his letters, put what plans into play that he could, and he waited.

With any luck, he would not have to wait long.

\-----------------------------------------

Varric had written, of course he had. He'd written to all of his friend from Kirkwall. It had taken a while for it to reach Fenris, the poor messenger had to comb most of the Wounded Coast before coming across the promised pile of bodies that would lead him to the elf. 

He hadn't believed the words at first, thought perhaps he had read them wrong. Hawke couldn't be gone. Hawke was Hawke, they could survive anything thrown at them. But no. Eventually, he had to accept that Hawke was gone, that stupidly they had given themselves for a world that had taken far too much from them already. 

He took a lot of his anger out on the slavers who were fool enough to prey on the refugees. It sated nothing. He needed to have solid answers. He needed to know why the Inquisition had failed to save one of the few people he had ever learned to trust.

So, one day, he packed light and just left the Free Marches. It was a long journey, every time he stopped off at a tavern, he heard tell of the Inquisitor, how they were fighting the good fight, how they were winning. The words might as well have been ash. They couldn't save Hawke. They could fix the hole in the sky and send Corypheus packing, but it wouldn't change the fact that they failed to save Hawke.

Some time after they certainly had done those things, did Fenris arrive at Skyhold. He was ignored, largely, as he stepped through, a refugee in a sea of them. He needed to find Varric. He needed answers.

Dorian was wandering, for once, taking in a bit of fresh air. The days here were long and much as he hated the crows, he found himself watching for them whenever he was outside- waiting for more new from Tevinter, any update at all about the current state of things.

Things were tense, and here, much as he might like to imagine himself spinning a meticulous web, the truth was that he was disconnected from where he needed to be, and he knew it, and knew it well.

Alone, away from where he needed to be. As much warmth and caring as he felt for the Inquisitor, promises to stay there almost a self-made cage, forcing him to linger and wander the halls of Skyhold until an uncertain "someday".

He nearly passed the elf by, but there was a flicker of recognition, perhaps it was the accent, perhaps it's the tattoos etched into his skin. There was something about him, but Dorian cannot place him, at first. Not in the armor. The realization comes to him- he had recognized the elf from a passing glance, stolen across a dining room at a party years ago. It's the accent that does it, and Dorian stepped across the muddy courtyard, nodding to the guard.

“I can see to this one.”

He turned his eyes on Fenris, looking him over for a moment, and then spoke in Tevene.

“What is it that you need?”

The Tevene wasn't welcome, not while he'd been hunting slavers for so long. Fenris' whole body tensed, the lyrium flickering to life as he spun around, eyes flashing in anger to glare at the speaker. His hand was already reaching for his sword. There was no recognition, not right away. 

“Nothing that you can provide,” he spat.

Dorian watched him, carefully, giving him a good long look. Either this was an assassin, sent from Tevinter, or something else gave offense. Dorian took a step back, hands out, palms flat against the ground, like he might placate an angry animal.

“Dorian Pavus, of Quarinus. I will be dreadfully disappointed if I am to die in these robes, and I suspect the Inquisitor would not be fond of my passing, either.” May as well play what cards he could.

House Pavus. Fenris recognised the name- Danarius was never a fan. The head spoke up against blood magic, and as such, Danarius snubbed the man as much as he could. The first name sparked something else, though. Dorian. Varric had spoken of him, in his letters, with express instructions for Fenris not to kill him. 

The elf's tattoos stopped glowing, and his hand moved from his sword, but he still remained tense, like a cornered animal.

“I wish to speak to Varric.”

Ah, another one of Varric's old friends, come to see him, Dorian thought. He wondered, vaguely, if this had anything to do with Hawke. Dorian had not known the man well, and during a war, there was no time for mourning new acquaintances. You picked up, and you moved on. He had offered some small comfort to Varric, but that was it.

He waved the elf over, turning to walk back toward the keep proper.

“He should be where he usually sits and writes, then- some days he joins us, but he's largely kept himself secluded away, working on his next masterpiece.”

And then he looked back at him.

“What is your name, by the way?”

Fenris had planned to walk in silence. It had been a while, since he could speak in his mother tongue to anyone, but that didn't mean he especially welcomed it. It brought up unpleasant memories, and he still wasn't sure what this mage's angle was, what clever Tevinter game he was playing. There had to be one. There always was.

“Fenris.”

The reply was curt. He just wanted to get to the dwarf and have all of this done with.

Despite Dorian’s glibness, the tones aren’t missed, and he already had two ideas in mind- either Fenris was free, and thus likely wanted to kill him for being among the slave-owning class, or Fenris was not and had been sent by his master to murder them.

He wasn’t certain which was more dangerous, and he took a winding path up to the battlements. He'd have to get him to talk and see if it was even safe to have Fenris speak to Varric. The dwarf was a friend, a bit of one, anyway, and he wouldn't want to lead the elf into the keep where he could be a threat to more people.

“What is your business with Varric, anyway? Come to ask for his autograph on a book?”

“We're friends. I've known him since Kirkwall.” Kirkwall. The first place he began to think of as home, now little more than a shell, desperately trying to rebuild.

“Oh, that shithole.” Dorian waved a hand, dismissively.

“Yes. That shithole.” Fenris' lip curled a little, as Dorian continued on. No wonder Varric had kept stressing to him to not murder the Tevinter mage.

Dorian didn’t miss a beat, and if he noticed the tone, he didn’t show it.

“Very well, and you have the pleasure of meeting the pariah from Tevinter. Skyhold may as well be my increasingly chilly summer home.”

Fenris huffed softly, annoyed.

“I am sure it must be very difficult from you, away from a seat of absolute power to sit here amongst commoners.” His tone was bitter, sarcastic. Varric may have asked him not to kill the mage, but it didn't mean he had to like him any. He was vaguely aware they are going the long way round, but he didn't know the keep to go searching himself. For now, he was stuck with his guide.

Dorian waved a hand dismissively, looking beside himself at the elf. Fenris moved quietly, and for a moment he was worried that he might be an assassin, a fear born out of life in Tevinter and a habit of being outspoken about politics.

“Yes, dreadfully difficult. I've not had someone rub my feet and feed me peeled grapes in years. Dreadful, terrible suffering, you see. I ask the Inquisitor but apparently that is squandering our resources.”

He prattled as they walked, observing Fenris out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps he had learned a few things in his time with The Iron Bull. “I'm certain you can see the relative luxury we live in here, though I can't complain. There is no shortage of attractive visitors.” His lips quirked in a smile as he looked Fenris over.

“You have no idea what true suffering is like. Just because you do not suit the taste of the Magisterium does not mean you understand the true cruelties of Tevinter. You speak like a child, deprived of his favourite toy. “

Fenris didn’t even say anything to the last of it, blatantly ignoring the flirting. 

Dorian kept walking, kept the act up, that all he was, was this- a frivolous man, one who didn't belong here.

The truth was that the Inquisition is the only place he did feel he belonged.

Fenris's barbed words don't hurt, because that Dorian- the bravado and bluster- was never the true Dorian. It was a facade, a warm mask he wore to keep people from actually hurting him.

“Ah, yes, quite. Dorian Pavus, the spoiled son of Tevinter.”

He shrugged, waving a hand dismissively, rounding a hall.

“I do hope you're more glad to see Varric than you are myself. I feel I ought to send a crow ahead to warn him.”

Fenris continued to scowl, keeping his head forward, wishing he could block out the mage's babbling.

“He has earned my friendship. You have not. Not even close.” There was a tug at his heart. The people he met in Kirkwall had become a family to him. He truly missed all of them, even the dwarf and his ridiculous chesthair.

“Well, it has been a pleasure, Fenris, truly. Do enjoy your little chat with Varric.”

They rounded a corner, and Dorian gestured to a door with a piece of paper tacked on it, informing them that he was not to be disturbed. Dorian rarely followed rules when they didn't suit him, and he was certain that Varric would like to see his friend.

Fenris gave him a noncommittal grunt in response, pushing the door open, certainly not caring for the note - even if he could read it now. He and Varric rarely cared for one another's privacy in Kirkwall, he doubted things had changed here. 

“I can be found in the tower, if you're wondering where not to go, if you wish to avoid me.” Dorian folded his arms behind his back, looking the elf over with curiosity. Fenris. He would have to think of what he could recall about him.

Fenris met his eyes and raised his chin a bit, as if asserting himself under Dorian’s casual scrutiny. “I shall bare that in mind.”

Dorian managed a smirk, and then shrugged, like he didn't care, turning his back to Fenris and sauntering away. Curious man, that one. He'd have to ask Varric about him, later. He heard the door shut behind him, and muffled voices carrying into the hall as he retreated, again, to his books.


	2. Chapter 2

Crows were sent, and meetings held, days passed, and Dorian spent much of his time working with the Spymistress and Ambassador, trying to track and arrange for quenching the flames of the Venatori. The movement had been gutted, but the spirit lived on.

There were talks of a Magisters leading the nationalist movement now, whispers of blood magic and alliances made in back rooms that no one could really be certain of.

It was frustrating, to be so far away- nearly half a world separated him from Tevinter. There was little he could do here.

Days were spent among his books, missing the smell of fresh paint, in an odd way- Solas had not been located. Occasionally, he would visit The Iron Bull, allow himself to be trussed up and attended to for a short while, but even that was only a momentary distraction from the troubles in Tevinter.

For as much as he had found some odd sort of belonging here, Tevinter would always be home.

News was few and far between, save for one curious missive. He has his nose so thoroughly buried in it, and makes his way down to Varric's room. He nearly passes Fenris by, but he stops, and turns, gesturing with the letter.

“Ah, Fenris. I have a few questions, if you will indulge me.”

Fenris did not plan to stay in Skyhold as long as he had. He only wished to get the answers he sought, and to leave, heading back to the Free Marches, perhaps, continuing his grisly work. After Kirkwall, he had no plans to become part of something again, and still feelt very much an outsider. 

Still, the Inquisition paid well for a man who could track as well as he. Who does not care about getting his hands dirty. And there's Varric. Varric who, to those on the outside seems as full as bolster as ever, a fatherly center of the universe. To Fenris, though, who had known him for well over a decade, the cracks were easy to spot. The loss of Hawke had hit the dwarf harder than anyone, and Fenris couldn't find himself to become just another vanished friend to Varric. Not yet.

He frowned at Dorian's approach. He had given very little attention to his countryman, curt answers, if anything. Dorian, as far as he's concerned, was a child in a daydream. One which will inevitably end him.

“Do I have any choice in the matter?”

Dorian scoffed softly, expecting nothing more than that blithe response. “Oh, certainly. You can tell me, as has been told by others before, to kindly go and fuck myself.” He smiled, raising his brows and folding his arms and the letter behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet for a moment.

For a moment, Fenris truly considered telling him to do just that. Varric had continually told him to at least try to talk to the other members of the Inquisition. The elf may not accept himself as part of them, but he spent enough time with them to be on familiar terms with them. 

He hated it when Varric made a compelling argument.

“I shall save that for after I know what you want of me.”

Dorian smiled genially, and nodded, holding out the letter.

“This letter is from a friend...I wanted to know if you knew of a safe passage from Tevinter to the Free Marches.”

It wasn't a lie. 

Fenris glared at the letter, as if it could well poison him, before having out a sigh, taking it from the mage. He took his time in reading it- the skill was his now, but he still needed to go over the words carefully, sound them out in his head to be certain that they were right. It's one of the gifts that Hawke gave him, and thinking about it made his heart hurt.

The handwriting was delicate, deliberate, written by a woman that Dorian had taught to read and write- his childhood nurse, Berille.

The message was brief, asking if he would send for her in Marothius. It was unsigned, the only thing marking who it was from was a small drawing of a duck in the bottom right corner.

Eventually, he finished and sat back. 

“The way is not easy. The slavers are even more numerous than when I left. They hunt on the refugees as if they were meat to be picked off a bone. I know of safe places, for your... friend to travel to. It would most certainly be a journey that would have to be made in stages. Coin would be needed, too. People are easier silenced when they have some weight in their pockets. “

He looked him over, quiet. “Who are they? This...duck person? Another disenchanted heir?” Fenris doesn't even try to keep the disdain from his tone.

“No, not precisely.” Dorian held his hand out for the letter. “Her name is Berille. An elf woman, roughly a foot shorter than me, I've been keeping correspondence with her. We've known each other for quite some time.”

There are glaring omissions there.

Fenris' frown deepened, as he handed the letter back. There aren't many lives an elf can live in Tevinter, their choices are depressingly small. There has been an issue he has wanted to bring up with Dorian, even with Varric constantly telling him that he really didn't want to know the answer. As the letter went back to its owner, he spoke.

“Is she a slave?”

The 'is she YOUR slave' went ominously unsaid, but it hung there in the atmosphere between them all the same.

Dorian raised a brow. “One of the ones my father kept in his household. I haven't heard from her in some time.” A slight stress on the "my father".

“As it stands, the goal is to bring her here, to Skyhold. The Imperium is no longer safe for her, and I'd like her to be out of danger.”

The political climate was unsafe for someone who was connected to the Pariah of Minrathos, not when she was separated from the Pavus household.

Fenris spoke, unthinking and bitter. He'd learned to tar all of the mages of his homeland with the same brush, as a matter of survival. He was still not convinced Dorian wasn't here as a plant, waiting for the chance to murder the lot of them. Battle against Corypheus bedamned.

“Why? Do you feel the servants here do not meet your standards? You are aware it's illegal outside of the Imperium.”

Dorian looked him over, something flitting across his face, like curiosity, and then almost amusement.

It's always like this, but he wasn't used to such words being spoken in Tevene, a sharp stab at him. He shakes his head, and looks him over. 

“I am well aware of that. And no, she has been separated from my father's household, sent off to the ass end of some trade route. She wouldn't be writing me were it not desperate.”

Dorian had few people sympathetic to him in Tevinter, but Berille was one he treasured. She may be a slave, but she was more dear to him than anyone else in the imperium, save Rilienus, whose memory still lingered.

“I did mention that I am largely disliked by the Magisterium, correct? I am...concerned that perhaps someone has uncovered her connection to me, and thus I wish to bring her somewhere safe, even if I must go there myself.”

Fenris listened, quietly. His suspicions on Dorian as a whole don't go down as he does, but this gave him reason to pause. His eyes flitted up, searching, trying to see past the mask of arrogance the mage always wore.

“So you are bringing her here to protect her?”

He spoke cautiously, because quite frankly, it was too much to believe in. Why would any Altus want to protect a slave? Treat them like they were anything like a worthy being. It's just not done.

Dorian almost reached for something honest, sincere. Almost tells him that he cares for her more than his own mother, that she raised him more than Lady Pavus did. He almost managed it.

Almost.

“Something like that. It just wouldn't do to have her dying on my behalf. Besides, no one else here is as good of a gossip as she is. It's dreadfully boring.”

That...wasn't quite the answer Fenris was looking for, and his face showed his disappointment.

“I see. So long as you are not bored.”

Dorian could see it, of course he could, and it stung. He was far out of his element here, but some part of him wanted Fenris to accept him.

Fenris, from what he knew about him, had been broken by the same machine of Tevinter that had broken Dorian. But, in a way, Dorian felt that if he could win him over, it would prove to Dorian as much as anyone else that he wasn’t like the broken and crooked men back in his homeland.

Odd, that he might find himself in this position. But far away from Tevinter, he only had the lingering word “pariah” to prove that he wasn’t like the rest there, save from having helped the Inquisition. That wasn’t as personal as this. Dorian understood deeds, he understood that men might do things that seemed noble and worthy only to appear so. Words, deeds, none of that means anything to him from himself. Certainly, outside of Tevinter, he could trust that others had good intent, knew what was Right and Just and weren’t just appearing to be virtuous to deceive.

But Dorian couldn’t trust that about himself. He knew that he was born and bred to be a serpent as much as the rest, and if his own father could fall to the temptations offered by Tevinter- power, desperately clinging to control, Dorian needed something else to prove to himself that he wasn’t like them.

He looked Fenris over, and the arrogant mask slips for a moment. There’s concern there, and honesty.

“I worry for her. She is very dear to me.”

There it was. Fenris considered, quietly watching him, judging every facial tic, every half expression. He seemed to be satisfied. Dorian COULD be lying, but if he was, it will be the last thing he does, should he keep the woman as a slave when she arrives. Fenris will be watching. Closely.

“Then we will find safe passage for her.”

Dorian breathed out a sigh of relief he didn't realize he was holding onto, his expression honest for just a moment before it was schooled back into the mask of irreverence and pride.

“I knew you struck me as the dependable sort! Thank you, Fenris.”

He tilted his head softly, almost a bow of his head.

“I doubt the Inquisition has forces to spare to risk bringing her that far...I have contacts in the Imperium, but I doubt they can make it there in time.”

Dorian turned, speaking as much with his hands as with his mouth, pacing the hall. Fenris watched him pace, eyes on him all the time. There was no disdain in his expression for now, at least. Just silent observation.

“I...suppose she will have to cross the water, I'm certain they have can her brought from the Storm Coast, if she made landing there…” Dorian’s hand went to his chin as he thought aloud.

“She will need protection, at the Coast. There are always slavers there, they use the caves as storage.”

It was where Hadriana sent her men, to try to fruitlessly capture Fenris. He remembered it all horribly well. Orana lost her father, that day. She was given her freedom, but at a terrible price.

Dorian thought that over. He was never the outdoorsy sort, but allies and friends were in short supply, and if anyone was going to see here there safe, well...

He looked Fenris over for a moment. The elf was, well, an elf. Thin, short, his posture lacking. But Dorian knew well enough to not judge how capable a man was by that- he had seen old and infirm men condemn others to death with a soft wave of their hand.

In Tevinter, the greatest mistake was assuming anyone was simply as they appeared. Without a doubt, then, Fenris was capable, and terribly dangerous.

Dorian raised a brow at him, considering, and then smiled.

Fenris was dangerous, and Dorian always enjoyed danger.

“Well, in that case, how do you feel about killing slavers?”

“I happen to take great pleasure in it.”

Others might feel uneasy, about killing so many. But not Fenris, he had been recreated as the perfect living weapon. Danarius has melted down and reshaped him like any sword. He may not live under his former master's shadows any more, but that doesn't make him any less of an unrepentant killer.

Slavers, though. They were a kill he enjoyed. It was like cleansing.

Dorian disliked slavers, largely because he felt there were enough mouths to feed in Tevinter. To capture someone and force them into that life was reprehensible- slavery was a good last resort, he thought. It was a way for the poor to get off of the streets.

He was wrong. But he was in many things.

It was viewpoint Fenris would only be too willing to teach him the error of his ways on. Possibly with violence.

...Highly probably with violence.

Dorian nodded. “Good, I will make the arrangements, then. I do hope you intend to stick about for more than a few weeks.”

“All I was going to do was head back to the Free Marches anyway. It is not as if this is diverting me from another task.”

Dorian nodded, and then offered him a small bow, a grand gesture of waving his hand and lowering himself just a bit, but it was meant with sincerity.

“Thank you, Fenris.”

He was almost amused at the idea of treating Fenris like a respected member of the household- not because it wasn't right, but because he knew it was likely unexpected.

Fenris was a free man, and Dorian wanted to win him over, to prove as much to himself as anyone else that Dorian was nothing like the broken and wrong men back home, who bent others over and broke them in turn simply because they could.

There was much evil in the world, Dorian knew. But what he also knew was that the most common form of evil was not wanting to rain darkspawn on the world and summon demons to destroy everything. The most simple, common form of evil, and the most insidious, was when someone wished to control someone else, shape them into what they wanted them to be.

It was the sort of evil that had tarred the memory of his father, Halward, a man he had once loved more than himself. Dorian had lived and breathed for his father's approval- anything for him, anything.

And even now, he still struggled to know who he was outside of Halward Pavus's shadow. Oh, certainly, Dorian made a show of being Dorian Pavus, all bravado and bluster and arrogance and pride and charming wit. But that wasn't who he truly was.

Truly, he was the Pariah of Minrathos. A man with few friends and who only found a purpose in trying to do the right thing.

Fenris watched the show with a furrowed brow. Why would the man bow at him? Was it some sort of mockery? Play games with the escaped slave, remind him what their positions would have once been? A spiteful comeback was already on his lips. That he didn't need this false gesture. That he wanted nothing to do with the motherland they share. That he didn't need the reminder of the position he once held.

He doesn't, though. He just narrowed his eyes, and lets out a 'tch' sound. He wasn’t sure if Dorian was being genuine or not. He was an infinitely curious man, if this wasn't an elaborate act, it was amazing to think he could have come out of Tevinter at all. Especially from the Altus class.

“I will let you know when I have a day scheduled for our little...excursion.” Dorian rose, smirking a bit.

Fenris’s expression was mild, and he nearly frowned.

“I will be here.”


End file.
